I asked our mother what you would say
To us if we had five minutes with you.
What would I say knowing that those
Would be my last five minutes with you?
What can you say? What would you say?
Something that you should say every single day?
What you felt, how you felt, every single day?
What would you say if we had another five minutes?
If you could speak to us after your death?
I hear your voice, and my mother and I heard the same
Answer at the same time in our heads, take it easy, don’t overthink it.
I don’t know what you are capable of feeling just now,
Can you still feel and perceive and comprehend human emotions?
Is this your energy finding its old words?
Are you above it all now? Or are you still you, just in a different space?
It comforts me that you still have your same language.
That your voice, immaterial, sticks around, the way you
Sound is right here, in my ear, in my head, across my skin
When I look at your face, when I light the candle in front
Of you, coming out of my phone. You telling us to take it easy
Makes me trust that you are more than okay. I think you are lighter.
I try to gather all these human emotions that come in all nuances,
Heavy, and don’t overthink them, make them lighter too in accordance
With your movement that I sense around me, above me, water
Washing its shores clean, water bringing us closer together.